not sure
by civilianstick
Summary: West of Westeros, the Tower looms heavy over Arya Stark. East of Easteros, a headless khalasar passes into shadow. Written with help
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

* * *

Jiub shared the hold with a girl in quilted furs who slept clutching a sheathless sword.

Though her finery had the mottle of a long voyage and her face the same in bruises, she was no worse for wear than any prisoner he'd sailed with in his spotty career—and was like as not no prisoner at all, he wanted to say, if she'd been allowed to keep the stiletto, but he left that an open mystery for the nonce. It wasn't hard to smuggle a pin into any jail, and while the thickness of her doublet made her build a mystery above the knee, he couldn't see any maid not of Skyrim doing damage with such a slim blade, nor could he see one of Skyrim taking it over a bearded axe or spear. Perhaps she was fleeing somewhere, and some mage's knife was all she found to grab. He'd been there before.

With little else to do as Seyda Neen approached—his new home, with almost as much shit and fungus in the water as the Imperial hole he'd been rotting in—he watched her subtle fits, and admired the way sun and dust danced on the silken wolf of her mantle, until a shuddering hump far below sent her rolling onto her back. The eyes kept mum, but her breath puffed shallow and wakeful in the Thief's afternoon chill. If she intended to fool herself back to sleep, he thought, as the lean ship's lean crew land-hoed from stern to bow, she had her work cut out; prisoner or no, Cyrod or Nord, the n'wah would be tipped out like a cup of curdled milk if she didn't lift herself up on her feet soon.

"Wake up," said Jiub, crouching to her level. Dark brows knitted at the sound of his voice, then dark lids lifted over light eyes, grey as the West Gash. "Why are you shaking? Are you OK? Wake up."

The girl's eyes were wide open, but she may as well have been in a coma. Had she never seen a Dunmer before?

"Stand up . . . there you go." He looked her up and down, as she did the same to the ship's hold, then back to him. Am I truly the first mer she has beheld? The tips of his ears flushed. "You were dreaming. What's your name?"

"Arya Stark," said Arya Stark.

"Well, Arya Stark, not even last night's storm could wake you," said Jiub. "I heard them say we've reached Morrowind."

"And I heard you talking about a strange tower nearby." The girl took a deep breath and shook, but she didn't seem to know what to say. "I thought there'd be more to it than people in hoods and masks standing around waving axes."

A sailor broke between them to fetch a pair of casks, then rolled a barrel out with his foot. They both ignored his parting suggestion that they be quick about disembarking, but Arya thrust her sword in her belt and smoothed her furs nonetheless, showing no care to avoid bristly patches, or those matted in old blood. Locks of hair salted into brown wire shook in her eyes as she reached and fiddled about, but she didn't seem to notice. Nor in truth did Jiub. Perhaps they were both still hanging on what she had said.

"The Tower was in my head, Arya Stark." He let a little Dunmeri venom seep into his gravel, and followed her to the ladder when she ignored him too and, satchel slung across her breast, strutted away with hands behind back. "I spoke of it only in a dream."

One rung up, Arya looked down at him, and her mouth was still. "Maybe we shared in the dream. I saw the tower as if it were the greatest and most dangerous woman with the most power, and I was afraid it was her when I woke up. In the dream, I said to myself, 'I shall be king for your women but I have no strength to kill her.'"

"Maybe we did," he said, teeth half-bared, jaw half-clenched. "I dreamt her too, feared her, and spoke the same words. No strength . . . yet in the end I killed her."

She stared. "How?"

"She has grown old as a woman."

"Why did you do it?"

"Because it was a lie, and no king can have a dream, no matter how clever and skilled his dreams are."

The steel plates in her eyes seemed to melt. She smirked a serpent's smirk, holding out a leathern hand to shake, and he pulled back his forked tongue, and they walked down the pier a pair of Tsaesci. A pair of n'wahs, exiled to the ashen dungheap he had left so long ago that they were practically newcomers in arms, with a sword and a Tower between them.

In the distance he could hear the laboured pealing of a silt strider. An elderly man called from it with a large, black, ornately carved saddle-bag; it was full of books. With its heavy hinges and scabbard a gryphon with the back of a ram roosted beside him, carried on a winged steed. He had lost his eyes, which in his youth had been in perfect working order and which were bright. He was wearing grey woolen riding-gear, carrying two large black spade-shaped mules, and was a very small man, almost the size of his horse, very gentle and gentle-hearted. His saddle-bag was filled with books. And the old man was talking to a small boy who appeared rather childish; some books were in the bundle by his side.

As he neared and sat beside Arya, it was very strange that he seemed to be in such a gloomy mood. They walked a very long distance, as if they had never seen anything of each other before. "What am I saying?" asked Jiub. "He appears to be quite calm. Are these men that you are following following their wildest dreams? Or do you intend to accompany me, my lady?"

Arya said just that she had thought very quickly of things to do after her visions, and so made haste on her way to the customs and excise office of Seyda Neen.

At one time he was asked about those dreams. He replied, "A dream is just a dream." Then he thought to himself, "The most wonderful thing for us to do here will be to look into those visions."

"They are indeed a kind of magic."

Arya told him that this is what the visions are. The visions of dreams. For if a man's mind is turned into a mirror, the man can see and understand clearly only the thoughts. For they come from nowhere and are not there, but are something that one knows.

As Arya came to the castle and spoke to the people, she seemed to be asking them about something that she must know. Perhaps she also brought to attention that this is something that they had been doing for four hundred years, that they must know, that they too had gone through the same dream-world which was to them the mirror of the minds, that they were at least in the same place. That this place could have been seen by the eyes the way the moons could be viewed. "What if I see you there, with the shadows and darkness and smoke?"

"It is possible," she said.

"Here is Vivec," said the clerk. Jiub froze, but Arya Stark rose from her chair to meet him. On either side of Arya stood two men he had seen on the ship—Terrance, a tall and muscular man dressed in royal armor, and a balding black-haired fellow with pale blue eyes—a black man, the one he had heard talk of. Arya nodded at them and strode forward. "The man who brought me over was a member of the Kingsguard," she said. "He's been with us since I left Winterfell." She stopped and stared at Jiub. "This is Lord Stannis."

"You're my brother?" asked Lord Stannis.

"No," she answered firmly.

"Who was my brother?"

Vivec opened his eyes. "Ah. This is Dany."

"Dany is gone," said Terrance.

"Do you know why?" asked Lord Stannis. "She's in Volantis."

"That's right," Arya said patiently. "But she left there for reasons we've yet to understand. I suppose that makes no sense. Is that all?"

"It's what makes Dany's story so amazing," said Terrance. "What would Dany have done?"

"I think the truth is more complicated," she agreed, smiling. "But I don't know what to believe. They're trying to help me understand things."

"I've seen the books," said Vivec.

"When you were growing up?" Arya raised her eyebrows. They cruised into conversation on things Jiub did not understand. He blinked, twice, and knew that Terrance and Stannis were one.

Arya was asking what Vivec knew of the Tower. If I were him, he thought, I would have killed her. The Tower was in the stars, and it was in Vvardenfell, and it was in the slipstream. But Vehk saw something else, and as he spoke Jiub felt dread sweat punch through his stomach, and his soul escape through the hole.

"They were waving swords. If they were walking in a straight path you could have mistaken them for a giant," said Vivec. "All that, and your face and arms and legs—how could you have not seen the signs?"

"I saw you in a dream about the tower," said Arya.

"And the sword in that dream," he said, "was the same sword that I killed in Balmora. That wasn't the same sword of your father. I saw it when you were on the steps of Morrowind." He put his finger to his lips in wonder. "I'll never forget what I saw, little girl. My sword is made in Mehrunes Dagon. You look nothing like Arya from another world."

"It was your sword that killed my father," Arya said softly. Jiub could see a light in her eyes as she spoke, the first of many things that sprung from her eyes. She was so beautiful now that Jiub could feel the heat of her skin, the breath on hers as she spoke, the smile of her lips, the way she looked at him.

"I am your princess," she said, suddenly acting it, "daughter of Eddard and Catelyn, Lord and Lady of Winterfell. I came here with the blessing of my brother, Bran the Broken, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."

Her voice was so soft, her voice so warm. Her face was almost the same color as her skin as she said, "I want to fight your brothers and destroy these men. I want to take their wives and daughters, and I want you to stop fighting them. I will find you brothers, and kill you!"

But then Arya smiled wide again, a smile that would not go away. She was so beautiful, so full of life, like a rose blossom in the summer sun. And that was just Arya.

"Vivec," said Vivec.

"Not today," said Arya Stark. Jiub blinked again, and Stannis drew his sword, and all of Seyda Neen was afire, but Vehk stayed to see none of it.

A second on the road, Arya turned to him. "Will you be my husband?"

"I suppose." He took the girl's hand. Once again Jiub stood before the girl. "May I ask something of you?" he asked. Her cheeks were flushed pink and her eyes were closed. Fat golden fingers traced along the side of Arya's head and she lifted her head to look at him, then back to a well-fed Altmer hedgemaid in the grass. She wore a crossbow at her side, over and under a netch leather apron that had been chopped and slashed and thrust and burned, and in her other hand was a blackened kwama forager.

"Will you be my wife?" he asked, but he wasn't sure if she heard him.

"Arya." As Arya said the words, the hedgemaid's finger traced back up the side of the head of Arya's head again; this time, she wasn't smiling. The fingers moved up inside her hair to reach above the girl's neck and between her legs, where were the fleshy lips, skin and ears. Now the hand was Jiub's own, and he was the hedgemaid, and Stannis disposed of his corpse, and took his common pants.


	2. Petyr I

**PETYR**

* * *

"More men on the road?"

The man with whom Littlefinger convened curled his toes. His Norvoshi slave bared her teeth. Littlefinger's Norvoshi slave kissed the floor and swept the blanktable's swath aloft her. The man watched this with interest that absorbed his joyouslessness, and seeming seeing sense, he requitted, bootbells jangling with popular power as he sat.

Yes, Petyr thought. It would do to keep this engagement as engaged.

"You take an interest in my slave?"

"She comports herself well alow the blanktable, my lord."

"I understand it is the Norvoshi fashion." A grunt escaped him as he took his place east of Wintercakes, whose eye had not left her counterpart since they came to the manse. "Yet yours does not requit."

"It is not in Amaze's nature to requit." A sad sorriness overed the eyes of their host, and Littlefinger heard the _ting_ of a bell, but its meal would have to wait. "It is curious that a man such as you should see fit to attend my attendant."

But the engagement turned. "What kind of men are they?"

"Sickled," said Littlefinger, "nut brown, and marching upon you in lines of length. I fear your Sorrows will be meted an ironic condition in time; ere this transpires, my cry to you is thus: 'Let us pass to the forests of Qohor, where evil feet cannot walk!'"

"Together?" The host tented his swollen fingers. "Together what use is there, if a man can't fight? No, I think I should put the question to you, Littlefinger, and to me I must answer."

Littlefinger laughed. Wintercakes laughed. "I'm sure you don't mean to suggest otherwise."

"Forgive me, but I think I'll put the matter to you this way, my son."

"I would think you would, and there's an old saying—"

"Yes; but 'You are no king!' the king has heard it twice!"

This struck Petyr in the guts. "You want to say no to me?" he asked. "The old saying is—you could ask me, I can tell it as well by myself."

"What?"

"You may ask yourself what I mean to take your place upon this earth as lord of the Dagger. I offer you no terms, but an honest appeal to pass to the forests of Qohor, where evil feet cannot walk. I have died, Your Greyce, and lived again, and in the moment of death I saw the Dagger fall. And yet rose I there again."

The host stood, and spoke only to his slave, in one of the tongues Littlefinger did not know. They fied and exeunted, a sentry posted to keep the visitors in.

"If we have to fight our way north, I will offer to be your wife," said Wintercakes. Littlefinger's mouth twitched.

"We can have no children together, you or I," he said softly, pressing his mustachios in to better line his skull. "Our children would not be happy." He held up a pink ring with a diamond inside, and held it out as a challenge, looking at the one that stood out in Wintercakes' mind.

"This, however, will be ours, I assure you." He gave her the ring. "How much would you need?" Littlefinger then stepped over to the door leading out of the castle walls and handed Wintercakes a gold ring that hung from a clasp in his right hand behind his back.

At first she was silent, then noisy. "What of the sentry?"

Littlefinger let a full smile play at his delicious lips. "Are we to go alone, my dear Wintercakes?"

"I despise waiting," said she, drawing up her skirts and plans. "We go alone, or you will see my heart drown in choler. The _khalasar_ is soon upon the Sorrows, and the Rhoyne awash with bronze and stone. Let us trust instead upon the field of gold, and go as we have gone from your country of snow and mud, to Qohor of many trees, and – why not? – beyond, to the Shadow, since you live in fear of light."

"I do not fear the light," he murmured. "Only those for whom it eases the hunt."

"Then you fear all living things!" cried his slave, now at the door. Before he could answer, she was slapping the weirwood and ebony halves without discrimination, calling for the sentry to unstow the crossbar.

"You must stay," came the muffled reply. "His Grey Grace commands it."

"He means to starve us, then!" Wintercakes was getting excited. It did not do to have taught her to speak; on this, and nothing else, the Spider had the right of it, and Petyr cursed him over and over as each side of the door barked graver and graver threats to the other.

"We are under attack," the sentry finally said. "The manse is being raided."

"By whom?" Littlefinger asked, whispering little more than a whisper.

"Whom by?" Wintercakes snapped through the door.

"Pirates!" said the sentry.

"Pirates?" said Wintercakes.

"Pirates," said Littlefinger. "Would that the Dothraki made quicker than they; for a horselord has at least horses, and boatmen no gods but those of the boat."

It was clear they must needs escape. Wintercakes took an ebony bar from the weirwood panel of the door, and snapped it in two on the windowpane. The glass did not even crack a smile. Affecting the Norvoshi scowl, she thrust the lesser half upon it again, and punched a hole the size of the dagger that banished him from Westeros. Then came the blanktable, and with it a welcome banishment from the manse. Gods be with the sentry, gurgling on something as the pirates closed in; all the gods of the Faceless Men, that they would focus not on the debtor that clambered now from treetop to treebottom after his her, who held the ebon bar like a banner.

* * *

So they set out together, heading towards the fruitless Sorrows and their new position of power. Those who had made their way south were not likely to stay very long if things continue as they were. It was possible to leave the river and go back to Westeros, although not without losing much of their knowledge of how it worked. With any luck, they would find something of use in the next few days.

It took them two weeks. It seemed Wintercakes was just starting to get used to the Sorrows. It looked small, even for a land of its size. But at least it was safe now.

Two weeks passed and Wintercakes seemedn't quite sure how she should behave any more. Some of the houses of those who had died of the plague were gone, and Wintercakes became desperate. They had all died of infection, or disease.

Danger lurked in every part of the land. There had been so many, and many had died. But a few remained, who, like a ghost of the past, were able to whisper the secrets of the dead to the children who walked on. And there was a prophecy too. What was the meaning?

_A prophecy_, he struggled to think, _of King's Landing? That someone would come down from the sky and burn King's Landing to the ground?_

The moon rose as Petyr rose, and a great stone of gold shone in the heavens, and all the land of Essos was lighted with its white light. "The Red God is fallen," cried the host of the Seven, laughing. "We have been deceived! We are the murderers, with our own hands," cried the Sun, the Dragon, and the Three-eyed Dog, when the sky shone bright all over, and the world began for them to be seen. Then Petyr rose up from the sea and fell upon the Red God, and buried him with his heart. The host of the Seven fell to their knees before the Red God that had been buried under the earth till this day; and there was heard a great groan and lamentation among the Seven, and there was silence on the throne-piece. "The King will come here soon," said Littlefinger the Mad, "for he is the only one who can rescue us from our enemies." Then at last it came to pass that they cried and groaned, and that the King came suddenly to meet them all . . . "Then, my lord," said Petyr, "I will lay hold of you, but you must not take me! Do not bring me up; it is my own hands that keep me together; be quiet. Take me to the Red Throne and there I shall remain for ever. What have I to do with the war? And, most god save the dead man, how can I help in this!"

Wintercakes spoke softly at that; and so Littlefinger did, and in a matter of few weeks they were both together again; and in that short period they kept each other up through the war, as they had the first time of it. And by the melting of spring, Ar Noy shrank and bowed to the greatness of Qohor, where evil feet cannot walk; and though the sentries harried and barred them, they found passage in a caravan of asses that beat a path into the forest, still ahead of the new Khal.

At one time there was not a creature that would seek to stand against them, not a bird of the sky that would follow them, not a beast of the field that would take up ground, for there was no one who loved the Dothraki sea. They loved to do battle over it; they loved to fight for it, but they loved to keep it safe from those that came to steal it, for it was not lost, but was not broken by force unless the right men were brave enough to carry it away. It was in that sense that there was no danger for Littlefinger in crossing it with his own slave, as she was a mother-of-three and a husband of three, neither father to any but two.

Yet he loved the grassland, and he held it with his fingers, but he loved the wilds much more. For in the wilds had not the king lived, or his wife, or two hundred men, or so many children. And Littlefinger would not allow himself to be deceived by the pretence of a wild place. It was like the King's father, that he should marry, or let his sons grow up so soon by his own grace and power; while it did not fit even the wild man in his thoughts; and then what would be their fate? He would return to Stannis, or his wife, or his children, should they be brought, or the three hundred men of the Vale, or all those who would be there with them, if nothing else came through; and that was what he should think of when he heard of this secret bargain with the Thief King of Meereen. And he saw that by taking her before him he could not but be glad; and he loved her, and desired to share the same love with the King, and would willingly do his duty to her husband by her side.

* * *

So he went to the door of the palace, and shut the door. And when he heard a woman's voice, his face grew pale with un-baelish anger, and his countenance grew white as the blood of dragons. "Is this true?" he cried, "the King's name has betrayed me. Come I, my lady," said he, "come to me, my lady. Do thou do as I command thee. If thou canst not save me, my lady, go to the true King, and make him thy master; and for thy life and blood, when that I have returned to the realm."

"The King is fled," said his replacement, a hoary old woman with a white widow's peak. "He has gone on a hunting tour of the land to find something he missed out on."

There was no other mention of this tour except for the fact that there was now a large dog at the front of the caravan, a stray, wandering about. The woman gave a long pause, then said, "The King will meet her again at his palace."

For a moment, all of the caravan stood in silence, wondering what this woman meant.

Then Wintercakes spoke, as she had not since leaving the Rhoyne; she took Petyr's sleeping dreams and the waking memories of the caravans and the court, and cried the simplest truth:

"He chases the last dragon west, in hope that he may lay his eyes upon its quarry."

"Then what gives him the thought of putting his sword to that woman, even to his own throat!" growled the new Queen. "I fear I did not know her! That young lady must have lived a long time before her death. Why, how she lives I shall never know! But at last, in that terrible night, when all who were ever fair and noble—noble and fair-minded men, who might have been true friends to me by blood and marriage, shall die! Then I will try to remember your face and your features and laugh. Let me have a chance, that she may never know me again."

Petyr smiled sweetly out of the pain in his chest, and Wintercakes began to laugh.

"I must have a laugh at your joy."

"What? Why, my lord, where shall I find joy?"

"I suppose, somewhere in the woods, I think." Petyr turned. "Let me think so. Let me remember her face."

"You would have me back in Qohor?" Wintercakes asked, askance and askew.

"My lady, heard you none of what I said?" His smile faded. "You must find the King before he finds his precious quarry, that it may be you."

"To what end, my lord?" Wintercakes demanded. "Is this a quest for you or for someone else?"

"I'm going to make him, my lady," he said. "To do what has seemed an impossible task, until it finally becomes a task of mercy." He gestured toward the door in front of him. "And there, now, you must open it as I have demanded."

"It's yours." She turned, face painted, and crossed the hall. "I trust I will do your bidding."

"You may not," Littlefinger began, but the girl's eyes grew larger and the corners of her mouth twitched into a grimace. "To follow me is to be my ally!" That smile and heft of shoulders made his chest hurt with worry as she felt the door.

"Do not ask too many questions," he admonished, and she began to cry herself. "We have some time before this madness returns to me, and I fear that you may not have learned your lesson yet... But as for now, the gods be with you."

The crowd of women was far too large and many of them took to whistling in the background. It was almost as if they knew that the Queen of the King was airborne and erstwhile. While the crone on the throne watched Wintercakes disappear through the door, Lord Baelish was already cornered by Tycho Nestoris.

"What now?" A large crowd was raised; the hall could fit all the nobles of Westeros, and Meereen seemed noble as any city of the East of the day. "What do you expect me to do?" Littlefinger hissed.

Tycho nodded slowly, as though there was already a hint of understanding in his eyes. "Your circumstance is unique, Lord Baelish, but not insurmountable. I offer no sympathy, as Meereen offers you no protection; but you know whence I would advise you, and that it is your lonely hope."

"There are no funds to be raised beyond the Shadow," said Littlefinger, gazing at the door at the end of the hall. "You would never see me again."

Littlefinger turned to leave. The women waited, watching. Finally, he heard the monier's voice:

"I am here to pay you my respects, I would appreciate to tell you that, my lord," it said as a long, silvery hand reached out and touched him.

"We are of no use to you," Littlefinger replied. "If you wish to live we will come to some reasonable arrangement."

"Yes, indeed. Let us discuss our terms, I would have no difficulty understanding you and your lady wife, I am sure."

"My lady is my servant, but I wish us to speak of it."

"I will meet you shortly again and you are free to leave."

"Forgive me, my lord," said Littlefinger, stepping carefully out of the hall. "We have come to a decision." The one who touched him followed and, without another word, they stood in silence.

A small red cloak, trimmed in a dark reddish green, hung at his neck from a white brooch. It had a simple inscription: DENSTAGMER, FORGORMES, FORSTIFY.

The green eyes stared at him and he felt the chill in those dark shadows around him, the feeling of shame and despair, of fear and helplessness. The old man seemed to be in this position, too— there were no walls to hide him.

So he did what he had to do, and he pulled something from his bag.


	3. Arya I

**ARYA**

* * *

It took the will of Morbash gro-Shagdub to send Arya to the sky shops of the Balm.

"I'm looking for the right one," she said to them.

"What should I talk to you for?" the man asked.

"There are plenty of good guys around here."

She was startled by the look of surprise in the man's eye. He turned to her surprised and asked: "So, how much you want for me?"

She was already sold. She knew how easily money can fall out of the trees. "I want something for a woman… I just want to have it."

"That is very well." The man said and turned to leave. Arya's heart leapt in her chest. She didn't get to have a proper man for three years. She really didn't want one.

But the man didn't. He kept asking things. What else was here for her? What was her family doing?

The man didn't say anything else. He just walked back through the market. It felt like years but it seemed so instant.

Arya watched him walk and her heart swelled up in anticipation. She knew who he was but could only guess how he planned to use her.

Suddenly there came a light, and Arya had her mind blown once again. It was the light from the fire which pierced through the ceiling, illuminating the room in orange light. The darkness was now gone and a glowing orange orb loomed over them. Arya gasped.

"Do you see it?" she asked, trying to make sense of it.

"Yes," Arya replied, her face growing dark. "I do. I see it, and I am afraid. If I am to survive, I must help the Light take this place, this place must become dark and then I must die."

Arya did not know what she was talking about, but the thought of going against the Light was terrifying. She knew that the Light could not be defeated, not without blood, especially if it was their strength that was the one lacking.

Morbash must have known the people there would not be able to resist her invitation, thus that he had to be careful—it was the first time she had ever visited the shop. They stared at each other for a moment, then he gave Arya some small gifts, one of which was a piece of silk of his own making and the other of a dragon's tusks; he asked her what she wanted and after she asked for the dragon's tusks, he gave her some more of the same kind and asked her to keep them for her future. It was only a day after that she was offered the one-way ticket to the moon.

As the Altmer have it, the Moon's rise is not an anomaly – it is a natural phenomenon. So, then, was her new-found power; mastery of ships that would cow the Red Kraken, let alone Stannis, who now joined the red-eyed hedgemaid at night, each grinding at their pestle until, chewed up by dreamfog, they let her sneak out to Towermeet her common-aunt Queen on a pedestal of queer axegrass she could not place, engroved in wet fronds she had never seen, though they waved like old friends.

The gaol pariah called Morbash gave her something to do beyond the babbling of a cowed sea. Towards a sea, she had spent her whole life; towards the other side of the world, she never had a chance. But now she was a sea, and more than a sea, she knew it. What else was she? An ac'cent of her name, and the scent of burning cedar – an ash that burned. She knew the name, but she did not know the scent.

A kin septa at the Halfway knew not of it; or knew, but spoke not, for aday she would but thumb her belt askance and purse her lips as if at the very smell, but came at night in the backbath, baring her milky height and sitting over herself like a crescent moon.

"How does it burn? How will I know I am right?"

And she to Arya:

"Is it not like burning a candle?"

Arya did not answer, but turned to her with strange hands, as if to touch her cheek.

"For a moment I thought it was a burning of my skin," she said. Hands took hands took flesh. She to Arya:

"Is it not like burning?"

It was, but vague and embrous; what she knew she felt was not at all like what she felt she knew. She said nothing, for there was nothing to say.

Then, with Arya's hand still clutched to her, the woman bent to her:

"I do not see any burning in the other man."

"The other ones are fine."

"Yes, one or two are, but a lot of them are burned."

"What? It is not the same as burning."

"I will tell you the truth," she said, and in the light of the two torches that burned bright: "This is what burning is, and I am as bad as any man! Any man will tell you that, and I will tell you it is bad.

"You are good; you are beautiful. You are like a flower. What is precious to you may burn, and what is not precious may die. That is what is called your existence. That is your life; you cannot escape it."

And she to she:

"What you say cannot come to pass. It was a precious flower and I did not destroy it. We do not know each other: you are the sun and I am the moon."

They left her in the morning, a nude and cooling witch, and the men of the fort freed her on the grass. Arya watched and chewed her lip while her company mustered on the road.

"I must go back," she said finally, but Lightbringer poached the wind from her breast.

"There is nothing there, my lady," said Stannis, drawing his blade along motes of ash she had almost forgotten, "and our horses tire in this mire."

"I must go back," she repeated. "She spoke of one thing that looms over me, but there are two, and I know she knew."

"There is nothing there."

"Then tell me, Lord Stannis: what grass flourishes in two bits of an axe? The witch sat beside me in the warmwater, bent like a crescent moon . . . or a tree. A great tree, stern but sagging under the weight of time, whose leaves, (being the tawny hair that fell in teeth around her face,) well-watered as hair and leaf may become, wafted slack, shiny, and heavy in the wind. Where, Lord Stannis, do such things grow?"

His eyes fell south, and he said nothing. Silence hung as the men of the fort shrunk and vanished behind their gates, broken by the labouring of Arya's horse. She swept a streak of grime from under her eyes, and damned Vivec in a cloudy breath.

She had to find a ship.

"There is a rumor that any mage from High Rock or Skyrim who reaches The Moon will have a wish granted to them by the moon," supposed the hedgemaid, "and this usually is a request for aid."

"And the Moon will answer," said Arya, hauling her horse about. "We ride for the Balm."

* * *

They rode on and on, day after day. Arya felt so tired that the edges of her ears were starting to crack. For all that life was new, it was also familiar. For a moment, she forgot where she was. She felt like her old world had been the last time she had ridden. As the ponies crept by, she tried to remember what she had been like. Her spirit was lifted and carried away when the smell of no forest took her and she didn't find herself in a clearing. She would have been happy to be inside the woods. A cliff did plunge into the water below. The West Gash, as it was known, was a travelling place for adventurous travelers. After the last ash storm, it was the place to go.

Arya felt the distance tearing. She went to the cliff face, looked out into the sea and the shore with a gasp. Another swan, this one large and brown. It dove, a long bill through the water. It landed on the bare soil, swan neck stretched out over the water and wings hanging in the air. "The Balm," it seemed to say, **"**a wooden bridge like this, this broken stone, these flowers, these fruits—all give me peace, all contain me."

Rock rose mightily enough where the streams were puny and the town was balmy, and shops crowned each crown with enough unbeatables to send a lance to the rim and a dozen more to displace it. The hedgemaid took Stannis elsewhere, to the Tower of White Woe, while Arya took the stock of the cat Ra'Virr, who blessed her sails through pointed teeth.

Outside sat the Hermaphrodamned.

"The outside of this world is terminal," said Vivec. "Your self did not leave the boat, Arya Stealk."

Arya balked. "What was that to me?"

Vivec looked on, smiling. "I was only going to ask you one question," he said, and smiled as though he were relishing the feeling of the smoothness of the linoleum floor beneath his palm. "Were you before the gods?"

"No."

He looked into her eyes. "I was the second of the Psijics."

"The?"

"If you do make it," he said, over a shoulder that shrunk into the invisible horizon behind, "seek that; but you seek the first of the second, not the second of the first, and it blinks, and this you know."

"I hope the sun will stand still at night," she said.

"Then you shall be free."

The next day Arya was dressed like a thief, Colovian fur pulled over her face and shoulders. Her lips were painted red and the birds, looking back at her, laughed. She climbed atop her horse and trotted off onto the _Winter War_.


End file.
